The Good of the Command
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The Mother Superior tales continue ...


**Title: The "For the Good of the Command" Affair**

Author: Mary Catherine Marshall Man from UNCLE, mid-1960s

Series: Continuation of the 'Mother Superior Tales'

Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual situations)

Date:

Disclaimer: Napoleon, Illya, Waverly, & UNCLE belong to other folks with a great deal of money. I borrow them for fun and zero profit. Sue if you like, but I'm a poor country preacher...

Illya made his way through Del Floria's, barely acknowledging the nod from the old man at the pressing table. The death of his brother weighed heavily on him and oozed into every thing he touched and every place he went.

Wanda, working the reception desk, smiled warmly as she handed him his triangular, yellow badge. "Good to see you, Illya."

Illya nodded as the door closed behind him. Agents hurried past him, some offering veiled looks of sympathy, others avoiding him completely. He took no notice.

The elevator took him to research and development where he donned his white lab coat and headed toward his private lab. Shelly, his lab assistant, spoke to him, but received no response.

"Illya!" she called, trotting after him. "The boss man, Mr. Waverly, wants to see you … immediately ... like now, dig?"

Illya stopped suddenly, turning on the young woman. It seemed to him to that she always wore too much eye makeup, that she was completely vacuous. "Shelly, I am not to be disturbed!" His voice was hard and cold, matching his eyes. "By anyone! Do you understand?"

"But, Mr. Waverly …" Shelly stammered, frightened by him.

"Do you understand?" he growled.

"Sure, Illya. Sure. It's cool," she said, hurrying away.

He entered his lab and disabled the door, locking himself inside. Turning to his workbench his eyes moved over the array of electronic projects awaiting his attention. He moved from item to item, his fingers idly brushing components, his eyes seeing but not comprehending. He went into his small office and sat down at his desk, dropping his head into his hands.

_Dima! Dima! I should have stopped you,_ he raged in silence. _How could you leave Tasha and Anushka? _Tears pooled in his palms and dropped onto his lab coat. _How could you leave me?_

Napoleon Solo breezed into headquarters a smile on his face belying the exhaustion that dogged his every step.

"Good morning, Wanda, my little flower," he said, winking at the petite Asian receptionist. She stood and leaned forward, pinning on his badge. He took a quick glance at her décolletage and grinned.

"Just like old times, Napoleon," she said, smiling at his handsome dark features. Her delicate fingers brushed his hand, touching his wedding band. "Sort of." Her grin was positively wicked.

"You are a bad girl, Wanda. A very bad girl!" he said, pausing as the steel door glided open. "Illya in?"

"In the labs I would think," she answered. "Poor dear." Napoleon flinched at the expression of pity, thinking of how Illya would despise it.

He greeted agents and staff as he made his way to the elevator banks. When the doors closed behind him, his finger hesitated over the buttons. _Labs_.

He sauntered into the main office and grinned at Shelly. "The boss in?"

Shelly frowned. "Doesn't want to be disturbed!" she snapped.

"Ouch! What happened to my sunny Shelly?" he asked, pasting on his best wounded look.

"Got my ass chewed, that's what!" she said, collecting a stack of files and moving toward the file cabinets. "Alls I said was, 'Mr. Waverly is asking to see you', okay? Like, immediately, okay? And he bit my head off!" She shook her long, dark, straight hair. "Look, I know he's all busted up over his brother, okay? I get that. Like, completely, okay? But, geeze, it's not my fault the Old Man wants to see him ASAP, is it? 'Course not."

"Sorry he was rude, Shelly," Napoleon said, glancing down the hall toward Illya's lab and office. "Does Mr. Waverly know that he's in?"

"Yup. I called Miss Blackstone and told her what happened. She said, "No prob," ya' know?"

"Good work, Shelly. I take it he's holed up in his lab?"

"You got it, ace." She glanced at the panel that reported lab activity. "The Light Wizard says the door's been disabled, can't get in no way, no how. And, he won't let you in, either. You can bet on it."

"Don't take that bet, Shelly," Napoleon said, heading toward Illya's office. "Thanks!"

"Like, don't mention it, okay?"

Alexander Waverly took no notice of Kristianna Blackstone's arrival in his study.

"Sir, Mr. Kuryakin is unable to meet with you," she said, taking his coffee cup, dumping the cold contents, and refilling it.

His graying head snapped up. "Unable?"

"He is unavailable, sir," she answered, returning the cup to the side table.

Waverly frowned, his bushy eyebrows meeting like thunder clouds over his pale blue eyes. "That is not possible, Miss Blackstone. You will summon him immediately."

Kristianna Blackstone seated herself opposite her boss of many years and watched him shuffle through reports. She waited.

He glanced up. "Summon him, Miss Blackstone. Immediately!"

She smiled. "With respect sir, Mr. Kuryakin is indisposed. He truly is unable to meet with you, truly unavailable at the moment." She paused as her words hit home.

"Ah, yes, Miss Blackstone," Waverly said, reaching for his pipe stand. "Thoughtless of me." He fumbled with his tobacco pouch. "This afternoon then."

Kristianna shook her head. "Again, sir, with respect, Mr. Kuryakin, in my opinion, should not be at headquarters. Certainly not considered for assignment." She paused, surprised at her own boldness.

Waverly set fire to the tobacco and puffed noisily. "Miss Blackstone, while I appreciate your concern for Mr. Kuryakin, it has been more than a month since the unfortunate loss of his brother. During that time I expected that he would, shall we say, make progress in dealing with his loss." He paused fixing his unwavering gaze on his assistant. He peered through a cloud of blue smoke and nodded, approving of his decision. "You will notify Mr. Solo that Mr. Kuryakin is suspended from field assignment until further notice."

The slim British woman stood and smoothed her navy blue skirt. "I should think, sir, that suspension is not advisable at the present time. May I suggest that Mr. Kuryakin be placed on leave of absence?"

He frowned at her. "Miss Blackstone, Mr. Kuryakin already exceeded what one might term 'normal' bereavement leave. His duties here have languished in his absence and it is high time that he return to his position. Advise Mr. Solo of my decision."

Kristianna schooled her features and quelled her anger. "I shall advise Mr. Solo of your decision, sir. If there is nothing else at the moment?"

"Yes, summon Mr. Kuryakin as ordered, Miss Blackstone," he said, waiving her out of his study. _Impertinence! _

Napoleon knocked on the lab door and waited. And waited.

"Tovarisch! It's me! Open up!" The sound of things being tossed, thrown, and broken filtered through the closed door. "Open the door, Illya! Now!"

"Go away!" His voice was soft, slurred, but insistent. "I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Disturbed my ass! Open the goddamn door!"

"Go away!"

Napoleon pulled a small black box from his jacket pocket and attached it to the edge of the door. He pushed three buttons in sequence and waited. The door opened silently. The lab was empty; stools lay scattered around the room, glass ware lay shattered, electrical components tossed on the floor like discarded toys.

"Illya?" Napoleon called softly. "Come on, Illya. I'm in. There's no way you can ignore me." A soft moan filtered from the lab office. Napoleon opened the door gently.

Illya sat at his desk, a half-empty bottle of vodka near his elbow. His Walther P-38 rested at the corner of the desk and Napoleon pocketed it.

"Do not trust me, tovarisch?" Illya slurred.

Napoleon shook his head. "No, Illya, I don't. At least not at the moment." He sank into the black vinyl couch and looked at his partner and best friend, unsure of what to say much less how to say it.

Illya cast red-rimmed, blurry eyes on his partner. "I am fine, Napasha. Quite fine." He drank from the bottle and landed it with a thud on the desk. "To coin a phrase, it is 'most unfortunate' that you find me in such circumstances. Most unfortunate."

"Let me take you home, Illya," Napoleon pleaded. He wondered how many hours and how many more bottles it would take before the Russian passed out. He checked the trash can and counted several empty bottles. _Maybe sooner than later._

Illya pulled himself up in his chair and glowered. "I am **_fine_**!" He ran his hand over his face. "Why do you not believe me, tovarisch? Do I not look **_fine_** to you? I certainly feel **_fine_**."

Napoleon hauled himself off the couch and grabbed the bottle helping himself to a healthy swig. It took all of his muscle control not to cough as the burning liquid seared his throat and exploded in his belly.

"You will drink me under the bridge, Napoleon?" Illya asked, chuckling at his analogy.

Napoleon grimaced. "Under the table, Illya. It's water under the bridge."

"Nyet! Never mix vodka with water! Never!"

"Right," Napoleon agreed, taking another hefty drink from the bottle.

Illya grabbed the bottle and frowned. "You drink too much, Napasha. What is left for me if you drink too much?" He took another drink.

"That's it, partner," Napoleon said, pouring the last drink in the trashcan and following it with the bottle. "Time for this party to move on."

Illya brightened. "Go to where?"

Napoleon grinned and winked at his partner. "My little surprise! Just for you!"

"Surprises I do not like," he shook his blond head and nearly fell out of his chair. "Do not. At all. Ever."

Napoleon grabbed the slight Russian under the arms and pulled him up. "You'll like this one, tovarisch. Trust me." Illya folded and Napoleon hoisted him into a fireman's carry.

"Me, trust?" Illya murmured his head bouncing against Napoleon's back. "You?"

"Trust me, partner," Napoleon said, heading to the garage entrance by the back way. "More than ever."

Emerson and Charlie sat on the park bench enjoying a beautiful early Spring Wednesday. Charlie cuddled Liz and the two women watched the Solo and Kuryakin children battle each other over a truck. Tia came up the winner.

"The Terrible Troika at work," Emerson laughed, "but I think I can see who the lead horse is."

"Her mother's daughter," Charlie said, as Nicky and Tony ran to plead their case against Tia.

"Mama! She stoled our truck!" Tony charged, his dark blue eyes flashing with anger.

"Tia _stole_ your truck, Tony," Charlie corrected, brushing his dark brown hair from his forehead. "Actually, she borrowed it. You have other things to play with, don't worry about it."

Nicky leaned against Emerson's leg, his solemn little face bearing a supremely wounded expression. "She is a bad girl, Mama," he said, shaking his blond head. "You should spank her, I think."

Emerson rolled her eyes and stifled her laughter. "I think that's a little too severe, Nick." She patted his back. "Go play with Tony. Tia will get bored with the truck soon and then you can play with it." His big blue eyes glared at her response. "Go. Play. Now!"

Once the boys were out of earshot both women dissolved into laughter. "His father's son. Did you see that glare? My God, Charlie, he's not even three yet!"

"Boarding school," Charlie said, nodding her head. "Far away. On the Continent where they can't get to us."

"We'd better start looking now before their reputations precede them," Emerson said, watching Tia carefully construct an intricate maze in the sand pit and then methodically destroy it with the truck.

"I don't know, Em," Charlie said, grinning at the little blonde. "She does love to demolish things. Maybe she's her father's daughter after all."

The two young women sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping martinis from a Thermos bottle. "I can't believe that they'll be three in September, Charlie. How the hell did this happen?"

"Time flies, friend," Charlie said, watching the kids and grabbing a bottle for Liz. "Speaking of her father, how's he doing?"

Emerson's face clouded with worry. "We weren't speaking of her father," she said, softly. "He's wonderful with the kids. Very attentive to Anushka and Tasha, tells them stories about Dima. Handles bath time, reads bedtime stories, and tucks them in. He's always at breakfast, bathed, shaved, and dressed for work." She watched the children play.

"He doesn't eat very much. He's thin and pale. Reminds me of how he looked after the Gulag affair." Emerson paused, collecting her thoughts. "When we're alone he simply disappears into the furniture ... with a bottle of vodka, of course. He refuses to talk to me about Dima. Conversation on any topic ends in an argument." She shook her head. "He refuses to talk to anyone in my section and refuses to talk to psych."

"You're looking a little ragged around the edges, too," Charlie said, taking her friend's hand. "How's he sleeping?" Emerson stared at the children. "You know, Em, I can keep him out of the field until he meets with Joanna or one of the shrinks."

"Who knows? Maybe he sleeps in the study … maybe in the lab. Certainly not with me. He won't let me get close to him unless the kids are around." Emerson shrugged. "If you're game to pull his ticket, then I'll just get out my flack jacket. I'm not sure I'm ready for that scene."

"I know he's furious with the Old Man and his response to what happened to Dima. The old bastard was insensitive … is insensitive," Charlie said, watching Tony make a play for another toy. "Antony Kuryakin Solo, don't make me come over there!"

"I understand that Kristianna's running interference for him," Emerson said, her face a mask of pain.

"Apparently, the Old Man figured that a month-long leave of absence was enough time for Illya to heal." Charlie's face darkened. "Not that Waverly knows anything about grief work, or cares to know," Charlie said, pouring fresh drinks. "He can be a wonderful man; but not this time."

"Is Napoleon concerned about working with Illya in the field?"

Charlie shook her dark curls. "No. Says he never drinks on assignment. Eats and sleeps when he can, like always. Napasha trusts him implicitly. If anything, Illya's more of a threat to THRUSH now than ever. Napoleon insists that all Illya has to do is glare at the bad guys and they fall dead in their tracks."

"It seems that the bad guys manage to get their hands on him often enough," Emerson said, brushing her fingers through her short, silver hair. "He's been your guest after nearly every assignment since this happened." Tears shimmered in her eyes. "Charlie, I'm afraid for him."

Charlie pulled Emerson into a hug and kissed her cheek. "I know, baby. We all are. Even Napoleon, though he won't admit it to me. He's worried that Illya's going to take once chance too many."

"What do I do, Charlie? How do I get him on track?"

Gentle fingers wiped away her tears. "Like I said, I can pull his ticket; order him to meet with your section or with psych, and I can demand a physical." Charlie tried to smile, but failed. "I can pull him off the duty roster."

"It's tempting, Charlie." She shook her head as if trying to settle her thoughts. "But I'm not sure that I … or you … want to deal with the fall-out."

The two young mothers rounded up the kids. "Got a plan?" Charlie asked, brushing sand from Tony's dark hair.

Emerson nodded, dumping sand from Tia's shoes and dusting dirt off Nicky's pants. "Maybe. Maybe it's time for a little direct action," she said, smiling at the three toddlers. "Better get moving or we'll be late picking up Tasha and Anushka. **_That_** will be fall-out!"

April Dancer opened her apartment door and frowned. "Isn't it a little early for whatever this is?" she asked, watching Napoleon struggle his way through the living room and head to her bedroom.

"Illya's in a little trouble, April," Napoleon said, dumping his partner on the pink and frilly queen sized bed. "I believe that Emerson calls it 'self medicating'."

April nodded, helping Napoleon undress the unconscious Russian. "Looks like a good old fashioned drunk to me."

"That's the problem. There were several empty vodka bottles in the trash and I helped polish one off myself." Napoleon dropped the discarded clothing in a heap. "I've let this go on too long."

"I had no idea," April said, tugging at the bedspread and bedclothes. "I mean, I know Illya can drink and does it well, but this …" Napoleon helped position Illya more comfortably and tucked in the bedclothes.

"Coffee?" Napoleon asked, brushing a stray lock of blond hair from Illya's forehead. "He's got to stop doing this, April. He's good in the field … scares the shit out of me and all the bad guys. But this …"

"Coffee will just take a minute," April said softly. "Pasha, I had no idea …" Napoleon nodded, closing the door behind her.

He sat quietly, holding Illya's hand. "This is it, tovarisch," he said softly. "We've got to get a grip on this one way or the other. I can't keep you on the duty roster the way things are now." He sighed sadly. "Illya, you've got to stop punishing yourself for something that's not your fault."

Illya moaned and tugged his hand away. Napoleon reclaimed it.

"I don't know if you can hear me or not … and I'm not sure that I care." Napoleon brushed his hand over his face. "Jesus, Illya, Dimitri would not want this! You know that deep in here," his fingers touched Illya's chest just above his heart. "He trusts you with his kids, the most important people in his life."

He watched the shallow breathing and worried at the dark circles beneath Illya's eyes and the paleness of his skin, now damp with sweat. He leaned close to Illya's ear. "Dima loved you Illya. Loved you. Get it? This shit would break his heart."

Illya moaned again and pulled his hand away. "Dima," he whispered.

Emerson ate supper with the kids, explaining that Papa was away, working with Uncle Napasha. Cav rounded them up, took care of baths, and got them ready for bed. Emerson read the requisite bedtime stories and tucked them in, promising that Papa would check on them when he got home.

She padded barefoot to the study and folded her legs beneath her on the over-sized leather couch. A stack of long neglected journals condemned her, competing with several pending files for her attention. She worked and read until 11 p.m. _A nice, long, hot soak,_ she thought, stripping as she walked toward the bedroom. _And, a vodka martini._

Napoleon's telephone call yesterday did little to lessen her worries about Illya.

"He's with me, Em. He's safe," Napoleon said. "We're at April's."

"What happened?" she asked, surprised at the unemotional tone of her voice.

"He had … let's just say he was having a bad day, Em," Napoleon said, hedging a little. "I found him in his lab … he was a little under the weather … so I hauled his ass to April's."

"I don't know how to help him, Napasha." She wrapped the coiled phone cord around her finger. "I mean, I do know how to help him, but he won't let me." She paused, lost in thought. "I'm sorry, 'Pasha. Please let April know how much I appreciate this."

"He's sleeping it off right now. I'll get him some food when he wakes up and maybe drop him at home later. Does that work for you?"

She nodded and then remembered that Napoleon couldn't see her. "You call the shots. If he wants to come home then bring him home … but only if he wants it. I don't want the kids exposed to this any more than necessary."

"You okay, Em?" Napoleon asked, worry in his voice.

"Just peachy, Napasha," she said, no humor in her voice. "This has got to stop." A ragged sigh escaped her lips. "Maybe a trip to Sidney Freedman might be in order … for both of us."

"I won't mention that," Napoleon said, pouring another cup of coffee. "He'll never come home if he gets wind of it."

"If he keeps this up he won't need to come home," Emerson said, concern and anger battling in her heart and mind. "The last time he did this was … before we tied the knot. Waverly nearly had his ass in a sling then."

"We'll get him back, Em."

She smiled at the simple sincerity of Napoleon's declaration. "I'm just tired and worried, 'Pasha. Thank you … for taking care of him," she said, ringing off.

She climbed out of the tub, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a prune and pulled on her dark blue velour robe. Pouring another martini, she curled up in the living room and watched the lights of the city. One o'clock chimed from the Grandfather clock in the hallway bringing her back to reality. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling French doors and leaned her forehead against the glass.

_What can I do, Nikala? How do I rescue you from yourself? How do I convince you that life is what Dima wants for you … _

She heard the front door slam.

His keys jangled in the small basket on the hall table. One look in the mirror told him all he needed to know, more than he wanted to know. He ran his fingers through his blond hair and glared at his reflection. A truly 'slept in' suit, shirt, and tie topped with red rimmed, blood shot eyes.

_You are one sorry, bastard,_ he thought, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. _One sorry bastard._ He glanced up at the sound of the etched glass door opening to the entry hall. She stood before him, her hair tousled,cheeks flushed, and her robe falling open to reveal her nude body.

"Come to bed with me," she invited, her voice low and smoky.

"Emerson …" He looked defeated and her heart broke for him.

"Kiss the kids goodnight, they're worried about you," she said, her eyes clear and her voice commanding. "Then … come to me."

He shook his head. "Em, please …"

She stepped back and opened the door for him. "Do it. Now."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "No! I do not want you, Emerson."

"I'm not interested in what **_you_** want, Kuryakin. I'm telling you what **_I_** want." There was no softening in her stance, her eyes, or her voice. "Move it!"

He walked quietly down the hall to the nursery and opened the door. Tia slept on her tummy, one arm thrown over her favorite bear, and the other arm bent to accommodate the thumb that rested between her rosy lips. She stirred when he kissed her forehead, but did not wake.

Nicky slept on his side, facing the door. His right hand stuffed beneath his pillow imitating the way he'd seen Illya sleep. His left hand gripped his precious blue blanket. Illya kissed his cheek and tucked him in. "Papa," Nick whispered in his sleep, a smile dancing across his face.

Tasha and Anushka slept like spoons in their double bed. He smiled at the two little blonde girls, his daughters now. _Dima! You will miss so much! _He shook his head to clear the offending, damning voice. He kissed them lightly, whispering his love for them in Russian.

In the hall he stopped and considered Emerson's words, _'I'm not interested in what **you** want, Kuryakin. I'm telling you what **I** want.' __She needs you, _he chided himself. _And, you, you stupid bastard, need her._

He walked through the living room and dining room and down the hall toward the double oak doors of their bedroom. He paused, hand resting on the doorknob. _You have spent less time planning an assault on a THRUSH stronghold_, he thought almost smiling at the analogyHe pushed open the door.

She sat propped against the richly padded headboard sipping a drink. "Welcome home, Nikala."

He ignored her, passing the bed, and entering the dressing room, shedding his jacket, tie, and shirt. Toeing off his shoes, he unfastened his belt and dropped his trousers into a dark puddle on the floor. His socks, t-shirt, and boxers quickly followed.

Naked, he returned to the bedroom and paused, letting his gaze touch her face and her body. "Emerson …"

"Stop calling me 'Emerson'," she ordered, offering him a drink.

He crawled onto the king-sized bed and took the offered glass. He sipped at it and frowned at the taste. Folding his legs yoga-style, he looked at his wife. "Why are you trying to do this?"

"I'm not **_trying_** to do anything, Kuryakin," she said, finishing her glass and setting it on the nightstand. "Finish your drink."

"This is no drink," he said, tossing back the glass.

"It's as good as you'll get here, Illya," she said, setting his empty glass on the nightstand. "The bar is closed."

"Emerson, please …"

She knelt in front of him, taking his face in her hands. "I miss you, Nikala." Her lips brushed his gently, but he did not respond.

"Nikala," she said, her voice choked with emotion, "please. Let yourself be with me."

He closed his eyes, unable to keep the tears in check. "I cannot, Em." She felt the tremor of his body. "I am … "

She sobbed, dropping her head on his shoulder. "I need to know that you're here. I need to know that you're safe."

His hands brushed her body and came to rest on her waist. "Emie, please …" his voice a ragged whisper.

She kissed him again, slowly and deeply. "My hearts hurts, Nikala. It's breaking into a million tiny, sharp, pieces." The bedside lamps glowed in her dark blue eyes. "Stay … tonight."

He kissed the valley between her breasts, tasting the sweetness of her skin beneath the bitterness of his tears.

Carl Henderson lay on the leather couch, his large arm resting over his eyes.

"We're at the Thrush installation, Carl. Jeff has set explosives all over the place. You are with the assault team, ready to enter. What happened?"

"I don't know …" he muttered.

"Yes, you do. It's very, very hot. Even though the sun is nearly set, the heat is oppressive. The air is stale and you're surrounded by hot, tired, anxious agents." She watched his body stiffen. "You're worried about Jeff. It's been hours since he contacted you. Not since morning."

"He wouldn't risk discovery," Carl whispered. "Afraid the local workers would get caught up in things. He was going to wait until the end of the day, after they were gone, and then blow the place. It was ready … timers, ya' know?"

Emerson nodded. "What's happening? Where are you?"

"Hillside. The one where Amira and I watched. We're ready to move. Ready," he patted the spot on his shoulder where his gun would normally be found. "Ready."

She waited. He moved his arm to rest by his side. "Jeff is good. He knows how to set the explosives and give us enough time to get in and out. I'm not worried about that. They'll go up as soon as the locals are clear. It'll give us plenty of cover to make the location."

"The sun is down, Carl. You're waiting. Your crew is getting jumpy."

"The first explosion goes off and we move in … spreading out … lots of gun fire … good cover for us …" He coughed as the dust and smoke became real for him. He wiped his face. "We caught a Thrush guard … I asked about Jeff … described him. The guard went white as a ghost. I knew that was bad for Jeff. Real bad."

"Take me to Jeff."

The red haired agent shook his head. "No. Don't know! Don't know!"

"Carl," her voice low and smoky, "you do know where Jeff is. Take me there. Now."

"No!"

"Now, Carl. Take me to Jeff." Her voice was hard and unrelenting.

His breathing was labored and he was soaked in sweat, just as if he was in the early evening heat of Morocco. "Down. Several levels. I take agents with me. Lots of resistance. Lots of Thrush. Blood. Smoke. Fire." His arms shield his face as if protecting it from the heat of the flames.

"We find Jeff … O, sweet Jesus!" Carl moaned and tears mixed with the sweat on his face. "O God!" He suddenly rolls to his side and vomits into the trash can Emerson had placed near the couch, expecting this reaction. He fell to his hands and knees.

"What do you see?"

"Blood. Everywhere. Blood, blood, blood!" He wiped his hands on his shirt and trousers. "Jesus! It's everywhere. Ceiling! Walls! The floor is slick with it! JEFF!"

Silence filled the office and Emerson waited.

Carl leaned back on his haunches, his arms circling his chest. "He's tied to a table … like he's standing up, but he isn't. He's just hanging there. His clothes are soaked with his own blood … vomit … piss … shit." His face screwed into a terrible grimace, his eyes tightly shut.

"He's broken. All broken. Everything's broken," Carl said, his voice soft, shocked at what it tried to describe. "No face. Jeff's got on face. Gone. It's gone. Gone." The big man bent double, a low, deep moan escaping his massive chest. "No face! No face!"

Emerson pressed a concealed button on the end table and waited. She helped Carl to the couch and covered him with a blanket. A medical team entered quietly, settled him onto the gurney, and took him to medical.

Emerson poured herself a jigger of scotch, lit a cigarette, and wept silently.

Joanna Fleming glanced up from the files on her desk and smiled. "Good to see you, Illya." He moved to the couch silently and sat down, legs and arms crossed in a typically defensive posture.

"I'll take that as 'good to see you, too, Joanna'," she said, taking the chair nearest the couch. "How long since you've had a drink?" Illya flushed with color and stared intently at the floor.

"I've receive reports from Charlie, Napoleon, and Mr. Waverly. I know what they're thinking. What I need to know is what you're thinking." Illya squirmed.

"I am present as required, Miss Fleming." His tone was even and without rancor although his eyes failed to meet hers.

"Look at me, Illya … and stop calling me 'Miss Fleming'." His eyes slowly rose to her face. "That's better. Look, I know you don't want to be here … that you think that you have no choice." She stood and walked to the credenza and poured coffee. "Want some? Or, tea?"

"Tea, please." He watched her, impressed with her trim figure and even more impressed with the quiet power she wielded rather gently. She handed him his tea and took her seat.

"You do have a choice, Illya. Either you can make this work for you or you can give up and let your grief for Dima overwhelm you." She sipped her coffee, letting her words sink in. "If you choose the latter then you've lost not only your brother, but also everything else that seems to matter to you." Her dark gray eyes captured his face. "Your partnership with Napoleon … his trust and respect for you and the work you do together. Mr. Waverly will have no choice but to terminate you from Section 2." Illya tried to look away, but she kept staring at him. "Your co-workers are concerned for you … they're not sure they can trust you in the field." Illya recoiled as if he had been slapped.

"Tough to hear, I know," she said, her gaze unwavering. "And, don't forget the most important people in your life … Anushka and Tasha are depending on you to be their father … Nicky and Tia deserve better than this." She sipped her coffee and then set the cup and saucer on the side table. "And, Emerson deserves better than this, too." Color rose in Illya's cheeks, his face grim.

"Go ahead, Illya, speak your mind. I know that I've prodded some painful, tender places … and I'm not going to stop until you have something to say to me." Illya set his cup and saucer carefully on the table.

"I have made several mistakes, Joanna," he said calmly. "I have permitted myself to succumb to weakness. I have allowed myself to find solace in alcohol when I should have been seeking assistance." His eyes met hers. "I recognize my weakness and my failure." He released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Now that I have said this to you I believe that I have come to terms with my behavior and will not repeat it." Joanna smiled sadly.

"Nice speech, Illya," she said, rising to stand over him. "But, not good enough. Contrary to popular psycho-babble, just recognizing your weakness and naming it isn't going to make much difference in the long run … and that's what we're about here … the long run." Illya's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"You've got a long way to go before this is settled, and we're going to make this journey together." She leaned down and frowned at him. "Your brother is dead, Illya. There was nothing you could do to make him stay in New York. There is nothing you can do to change the present situation. No matter how much vodka you drink, no matter how much distance you try to maintain, no matter how many chances you take in the field, in the final analysis Dima will still be dead." She stepped back and leaned against her desk watching a myriad of emotions flash across his wan face.

"So, here's your choice, Illya: you either wallow in the misplaced belief that you could have done something to save your brother … or, you choose to live, honoring him … loving him … by doing your job, caring for his daughters, and striving to be the man Dima believed you to be." Illya stood up, his hands fisting and unfisting, fury evident on his face.

"Do not presume to tell me, Joanna, how to deal with this. Dima was my brother and he is dead because I failed." He stepped toward her and she understood how angry he was. "He died because I did not demand that he honor the responsibilities he had here … responsibilities to his children. He died because I acquiesced to his wild-eyed concept of field work." Joanna laughed bitterly and shook her head.

"Listen to yourself, Illya. You make it sound as if Dima was an idiot child in need of your constant protection and guidance." Illya blanched his eyes wide with disbelief. "You make it sound as if Dima was incapable of making an informed decision." She stood up and faced him squarely. "Your biggest problem, Illya, is that Dima failed to obey you. He failed to meet the requirements you had for him … requirements to serve as your brother … to live in your shadow … to be grateful for the opportunities you gave him." Illya sucked in a breath and shook his head. "This is about Dima's death, Illya, but it's more about what he did to you." She pushed her fingers into his chest and glared at him. "Dima abandoned you."

"No." Illya's voice trembled, reflecting the risking panic in his body. His palms were sweaty and his eyes darted around the room. "No. Dima did not abandon me. No!" Joanna watched him intently, allowing him to feed on the panic and fear.

"Don't you feel abandoned by Dima? Don't you believe that you abandoned him?" Illya stumbled toward the door, disoriented and lost.

"Children, Illya, you were both children. You were much too young for the responsibilities thrust upon you. No five year old is capable of caring for a younger brother and sister. You did the best you could … more than any adult I know … to care for yourself and for them. Because you did your best Dima survived the war … and you survived." Illya pressed his forehead against the door and pressed his hands to his ears. "You did not abandon Dima or your sister, Illya. You did not abandon them in Kiev and you did not abandon Dima in Riga."

"I should have … stopped him … I should have forced him to stay …" Illya turned slowly and faced Joanna. "I should have been with him, protecting him, keeping him safe." His body trembled and he fell to his knees. "I should have …"

Joanna was at his side instantly, taking him in her arms, and rocking him gently. "Illya, Dima loved you," she murmured. "He respected you and wanted to serve UNCLE and the world as you serve." She brushed his hair from his forehead and smiled, her own tears shimmering in her eyes. "Dima loved you, trusted you, respected you … honor him, Illya. Honor him by loving him, trusting him, and respecting him. Honor him by raising his daughters with memories of their father, by giving them what he would have given … love, affection, and hope for the future." They knelt together and Joanna waited for Illya to regain control. He pulled away from her and stood, helping her to her feet.

"My apologies, Joanna," he said his voice was clear and firm. His blue eyes darkened, emotional barriers firmly back in place.

"We're not finished, Illya; not by a long shot." She kept her gaze on his face, daring him to look away. "Tomorrow at 2 p.m." He shook his head. "This is not a debating society, Illya. I tell you when you're finished." He glared at her. "Tomorrow at 2 p.m." The door opened.

"I will make our appointment unless I am called away." Joanna chuckled.

"You will make our appointment, Illya. You are off the active roster until further notice … and, don't make me come looking for you."

His glare softened just a little as he squared his shoulders and left the room.

Emerson appeared at Joanna's shoulder as the older woman read the Times and sipped an after lunch coffee in the commissary.

"Go away, Em." Emerson dropped into the chair opposite Joanna and grinned.

"That's a fine way to talk to your boss!" Joanna smiled.

"Just remember that, Em. You are my boss, so act like it. I will not discuss Illya with you." Emerson's eyebrow shot up. "You will not have access to his files. You know patient confidentiality and all that?"

"Joanna … I'm … um …" Joanna rested her palm on Emerson's hand.

"You're worried about him. Good, you should be. He is your husband and he needs your support and care. So, you be his wife … that's your job." Emerson sighed.

"Am I dismissed?" Joanna chuckled.

"Yes and no running in the halls!"

Illya made all of his appointments with Joanna in no small part because Napoleon forced him. The senior agent chuckled at the memory of one of their confrontation.

"Napoleon, I have met with Joanna ten times in the last two weeks. I believe that I am no longer in need of her counsel." The blond agent paced their shared office.

"That's not what Joanna reports." Illya wheeled on his boss.

"Have you no respect for my understanding of this situation?" Napoleon shrugged, unimpressed by the Kuryakin glare.

"Sure, Illya, I respect you and trust you, but this isn't about your understanding. It's about what Joanna understands, and she doesn't understand that you're finished." Illya dropped into his chair and Napoleon imagined that the expression on his partner's face was not unlike Nicky's when he was in a similar snit.

"I wish to be returned to active status," Illya growled. Napoleon grinned.

"Then cooperate with Joanna. She's the one who'll get you back to the exciting, glamorous world of espionage." The dark haired agent dodged the wad of paper aimed at his head. "_That_ sort of behavior isn't gaining you any brownie points." Illya's eyebrows rose.

"Brownie points?" Illya shook his shaggy, blond head. "'Nushka and Tasha are Brownies, the lowest echelon of the organization known as Girl Scouts." Napoleon laughed at the description.

"I've never heard the Girl Scouts described as having 'echelons', IK!" He rolled his eyes. "Let's just say that I'm not going to be impressed with your progress and neither will Mr. Waverly, if you fail to meet with Joanna until she says otherwise."

Illya pushed away from his desk and tugged on his jacket. 'Shall I report to you, sir, after my counseling session?" His voice was thick with sarcasm. Napoleon chuckled.

"Just bring a note from Joanna and make sure that you have a hall pass." The door hissed closed.

"I'll leave the birthday pictures, Kristianna," Emerson said as the door to Alexander Waverly's office opened. "Gentlemen," she said, finding the arrangement of bodies just a little odd.

Napoleon sat with his back to the door, something he never did no matter where he was. Illya leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, staring at the East River, and ignoring everyone else. Alexander Waverly puffed on his pipe, a look of pure distraction on his weathered face.

"Please be seated, Emie," Waverly said, glancing at her.

_Emie, _she thought, _it's using nicknames today. _She chose a seat opposite the two agents, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. She waited. The silence was deafening and the tension was palpable. Waverly glanced at his top two agents and sent an inch thick briefing folder around the revolving table.

"You will want to familiarize yourself with this," he said, looking pointedly at Emerson, "and we will discuss it at a later date," he said, dimming the lights as the view screen descended. He clicked the remote control and a slide appeared.

A slide of an older man, perhaps in his 50's, his craggy face creased in a mischievous grin, glowed on the screen. Unruly white hair sprouted on his head, reminiscent of Einstein, his tie askew, and his glasses pushed carelessly on his head completed the 'absent-minded professor' look.

"Dr. Timothy Devon-Jones," Waverly said, waving his pipe at the screen. "Professor emeritus and former chairman of the Department of Physics, Cambridge University." Waverly paused, consulting the red folder in his lap. "His primary research has involved the development of a new sources of propulsion based in quantum mechanics."

Emerson glanced at Illya who remained engrossed in the course of the East River. The slide was replaced with one of Dr. Devon-Jones towering over a young, blond man wearing a well-used lab coat and black rimmed glasses. Devon-Jones presented a large medal to the young man who appeared rather uneasy at the attention.

"The Elizabeth Regina Medal for excellence in physics research. In this case, honoring the outstanding doctoral dissertation of Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly explained. "Dr. Devon-Jones served as his dissertation director and mentor."

Emerson smiled. "Congratulations, Dr. Kuryakin," she said, hoping for some reaction. She garnered none. Turning her attention to Waverly she asked, "Is this little slide show is leading to something, Alexander?"

Waverly frowned. "More than one year ago Dr. Devon-Jones severed his ties with Cambridge and took his research into the private sector where he obtained unlimited resources and funding."

"Thrush?" she asked.

Napoleon frowned and nodded his head.

"Wonderful," she said flatly, watching Illya. There was no reaction.

"Should Dr. Devon-Jones be successful in developing a practical method for the use of quantum propulsion the results would be staggering."

Napoleon, his frown firmly in place, looked at Emerson. Illya remained unmoved.

"Cut to the chase, Alexander," she said.

Waverly cleared his throat and tapped the wasted contents of his pipe into a crystal ashtray. "I have offered an assignment to Mr. Kuryakin." His pale blue eyes wandered to Illya. An assignment that he may decline without prejudice." He paused, chose another pipe, and packed tobacco into the bowl. His eyes moved to Emerson. "I have asked Mr. Kuryakin to defect to Thrush and enter into research with his former mentor."

She sat in stunned silence, understanding Napoleon's frown and Illya's stillness.

"Mr. Kuryakin is to ingratiate himself with Dr. Devon-Jones and work on this project while sharing his findings with UNCLE. Depending upon the efficacy of the research, sabotage may be necessary." He searched for matches.

She looked at Illya who remained absolutely still. "So … allow me to distill this …" She lit a cigarette and sent the stream of light grey smoke to the ceiling. "Illya defects to Thrush. He gains the trust of his former mentor, enters into research on this hypothetical quantum propulsion device, and then, of course, thwarts the outcome. The Thrush Supreme Council is dazzled." Her clear, dark blue eyes snapped as they honed in on her boss. "That shouldn't take more than a few days … couple of weeks max. Am I close, Alexander?"

His bushy eyebrows met over his pale blue eyes. She could tell that he was caught off guard by her attitude having expected something more complicated than simple sarcasm. She tossed her silver cigarette lighter to him and he set fire to the tobacco, leaning back in his chair and puffing distractedly. Illya had yet to acknowledge any of the conversations swirling around him. She pressed on.

"A sanction order will be issued, correct?"

"Yes."

"He will be disavowed, correct?"

"Yes."

"And … I know I've got this part correct, too … there is no one else in UNCLE capable of this assignment?"

Waverly shook his head. "Correct. Mr. Kuryakin is singularly suited for this assignment."

Emerson turned her attention to Illya who remained unmoved. "How will we protect him? What's to keep some young … or old … UNCLE agent from acting on the sanction order?"

Waverly sighed. "Nothing, Emie. Should Mr. Kuryakin respond affirmatively to this assignment he will be, as the spy novels like to say, 'out in the cold.'"

"Understood," she said, her attention remaining on Illya.

Illya turned his cool blue eyes on her, his face impassive. A tiny, fleeting smile crossed her face and he nodded imperceptibly.

Waverly took in the exchange and puffed on his pipe. "The two of you will depart tomorrow morning for ten days at the UNCLE safe-house on the Outer Banks of North Carolina." The elderly man stood. "I will expect your answer upon your return and not before.

He walked toward his private study, puffing on his pipe. He stopped at the open door and turned, glancing from face to face. "If there is nothing else …"

"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Napoleon asked, as the three friends walked to the office he shared with Illya.

Illya and Emerson shared a look. "Yes, Napoleon," Illya answered. "I have no choice."

The door to the office opened and Napoleon dropped into his desk chair, anger in his eyes. "You _always_ have a choice, Illya. The Old Man can't force you to take this assignment."

Emerson kicked off her shoes and folded onto the black vinyl couch. "Save your breath, Napasha. He won't change his mind." She lit a cigarette.

Napoleon wheeled on her. "What the hell's going on?"

Illya dropped into his desk chair, retrieved his stash of Cuban cigars, and watched his wife and his best friend spar. He carefully prepared the cigar, touched the blue flame of his lighter to it and grinned at Emerson

"Let's just say that I've learned a few lessons, the hard way I might add, living with the Russian," she said, flipping a thumb in Illya's direction. She stared out the window as dusk claimed the city, a thin trail smoke from her cigarette dancing in the air. "The more inclined I am to rage the less inclined he is to see the light of my considerable wisdom."

"You've given up," Napoleon said, dejection in his voice. He fixed his gaze on his partner. "Don't you share?" he asked, pointing to the cigar. Illya tossed one across the desk.

"She has not given up, Napoleon," Illya said, smiling at his partner. "If anything she will be more tenacious than ever. Emerson will … how do you say it, Em?"

"Run your ass ragged, Kuryakin" she supplied, grinning at Napoleon.

"Da, ragged," Illya said, nodding his head. "While I am away, you will not have a moment's peace, Napasha. You will pine for encounters with Thrush." He grinned at his partner. "You know that I speak the truth."

Napoleon nodded his face sober. "We'll keep a close eye on you, tovarisch." He glanced at Emerson. "Both of you."

"I know you will, Napasha, and you have my thanks."

The office filled with an uneasy silence until Illya's belly rumbled loudly. Napoleon laughed.

"Shall we feed the voracious Russian?" the dark haired CEA asked.

"He'll hound us to hell and back if we don't," she laughed, patting Illya's flat tummy. "Call Charlie. I know that she'd hate to miss this one."

The weather was beautiful. The ocean still warm enough for swimming and the nights cool enough to welcome a wind breaker.. Illya and Emerson arrived on Friday, Napoleon and Charlie brought all of the Munchkins, plus Cav, on Sunday.

During the day, the kids played on the beach while Charlie and Emerson watched. Napoleon and Illya lounged on the porch, deep in undisturbed conversation. Each evening the two couples tucked in their children and headed off to one of the local watering holes for drinks and dinner. The topic of Illya's assignment was never discussed.

Until Tuesday, that is, when Napoleon invited Emerson for an early morning walk on the beach. After coffee and Danish, they set out.

Their footprints faded in the waves as they walked together in silence.

"God, I can't believe that I **_got out of bed _**to watch the sunrise!" Emerson chuckled, pausing to watch the sun begin its assent over the sea. She turned to Napoleon. "Speak."

"How are you going to deal with this, Em?"

She reached up and brushed at the furrows on his brow. "Keep frowning like that and you'll end up with wrinkles." She smiled, offering a shrug. "I don't know, Napasha. Sheer cussedness, I guess. That's what my sainted grandpa called my stubborn streak … 'sheer cussedness'." She laughed at the memory. "I got that stubbornness from him, you know."

"Now I know who to blame," he said, relaxing a little. "And all this time I thought it was Illya's fault."

"Oh, he brings it out … in spades … makes me more pig-headed than ever," she said, watching the expression on his face. "I shudder to think what this means for the kids."

His brown eyes captured her face. "We'll do whatever we can …"

"I know you will, Napasha," she said, taking in a deep breath, the sharpness of the sea air making her eyes water.

They walked a while longer watching the terns in their erratic flight, collecting the stray shell, and thinking.

"Em…" Napoleon took her hand. She smiled and looked out to sea.

"From the dawn of time women have birthed babies, searched for food and shelter for their families, and watched their men leave. It's always some asinine, testosterone charged quest." She paused, collecting a sand dollar from the surf. "Wives and lovers send their men off to inconvenient hell holes every day." She looked at Napoleon. "Charlie and I are the latest to join the sisterhood."

Napoleon watched her hold the fragile gift of the sea in her hand, sensing that there was more yet to be said. Her eyes darkened like the sky in a squall. "Sometimes they come home in a box." She shook her head at the thought and fixed her dark blue eyes on his face. "Sometimes they come home in pieces … physically, mentally, and emotionally. I'm no different from the rest of my sisters."

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "What happened to that hell cat, that shrew, that foul-mouthed broad I used to know?" There was no humor in his voice, only concern and confusion in his face.

Emerson shook her head. "She's here, Napasha," she said, touching her breast. "I've lived with Illya long enough to have learned a few things … picking my battles very carefully among them. I can worry myself, and Illya, senseless, I can make his life miserable until he resigns from Section 2 or from all of UNCLE, or I can find a place for it." Her eyes sought Napoleon. "I prefer a careful mix of denial, bargaining, and rationalization. He's going on assignment, Napasha. Longer and more challenging, I guess. We've made a sort of pact with the devil." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the salt tinged air. "He will come home, Napoleon. I will not have it any other way."

He pulled her into his arms. "Scared, Em?"

"Damn fucking straight," she answered a rueful laugh beneath her words. She looked him square in the eyes. "For me the focus of this assignment is the same as any other. Illya. And, I'll do whatever I have to do to get him home again."

Napoleon held her close and she rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the solid, steady pulse of his heart, drawing strength from it. "We'll do whatever we have to do, Em."

She pulled out of the embrace and smiled into his brown eyes. "Come on, the kids will be up soon expecting to be fed followed by a surly, hungry Russian."

Napoleon laughed. "Lead on … hungry kids I can deal with … I'm not up to dealing with a surly, hungry Russian!"

Wednesday morning Napoleon, Charlie, Cav, and the kids returned to New York leaving Emerson and Illya alone. Days were bright and sunny, the sea warm and welcoming, and the nights cool, clear and star-lit.

They lay on the beach, Illya with Emerson in his arms, watching the full moon skim the horizon and the stars begin their dance.

"Em," Illya whispered, "thank you."

"For what?" she murmured, kissing his chest.

"All of this …" his voice trailed off as they watched a shooting star arc across the sky.

"This?" she asked, her lips finding his.

He laughed, low and delightful in her ear. "Da, vozl'ublennyj," (Yes, beloved). Everything."

She pushed up on her elbow and grinned at him. "Pity the poor bastards who have to deal with me while you're away." Her grin faded. "Jesus! I hate this!"

He pulled her into his arms claiming her lips. Clothing fell onto the sand and she lost herself in the demanding power of his body. He surrendered to her in turn.

They lay together until Illya's belly growled fiercely, demanding attention.

She giggled a rare thing indeed. "Mr. Romantic."

"Lunch was a very long time ago, you know."

She sat up, tossed his clothes at him, and tugged on her white t-shirt and shorts, scooping up her panties and bra. She reached for his hand. "Come on, Cossack, let's feed you."

They walked back to the low-slung beach house, hand-in-hand. At the steps of the wide porch that circled the house, he stopped and pulled her into an embrace. His lips brushed her forehead, her closed eyelids, her cheeks, and her neck. She moaned her approval.

"Oh, Em," he whispered, holding her tight. "I am so … "

Her fingers pressed against his lips. "No, Nikala." Her blue eyes were dark, almost pleading. "No mea culpa. I hate this … despise it … but, it's part of the deal." She smiled softly. 'For better or for worse,' remember?"

His kiss was fiery, passionate, and tinged with sadness.

She smiled into his blue eyes and ran her fingers through his sun-bleached hair.

"Actually, I was about to say, 'I am so hungry'," he said evil grin firmly in place.

They returned to New York on Monday reporting directly to Alexander Waverly's office.

Kristianna greeted them, commenting on how wonderful it must be to have a tan so close to winter, and sent them to see the boss.

Waverly was, as usual, elbow deep in files, futzing with his pipe, and ignoring his immediate surroundings. After a few minutes, Emerson cleared her throat.

"Yes, Emie," Waverly said, dropping the pipe in the general vicinity of the pipe stand, "I am aware of your presence." He frowned at something in the file open before him and, finally, glanced up. "Oh, do be seated."

"Thanks, Alexander," she said, taking the seat next to Illya and reaching for his hand. Illya blushed.

"I take it that you have reached a decision," Waverly said, selecting another pipe and beginning the rite of filling it, tamping it down, and finding a match.

"Yes, sir," Illya said, squeezing Emerson's hand. "I accept the assignment."

Waverly looked at Emerson, his eyebrows raised above his pale blue eyes. "And you concur?"

"I do," she said, her voice steady and clear. "It's that whole 'for better, for worse," thing." She grinned at the elderly man.

"Very well," Waverly said, puffing on his pipe. "At 9 a.m. Wednesday Mr. Kuryakin will report to begin conditioning for this assignment. Specific information will be inserted in his memory while other information will be blocked or removed. The conditioning will be most rigorous and demanding, taking not less than 48-hours to complete." He paused, glancing at Emerson. "Therefore, in consultation with the Medical section, Mr. Kuryakin will remain on site beginning Wednesday."

They exchanged a glance and Waverly noted a nearly imperceptible squeeze of hands. "Yes, sir," Illya said.

"I suggest that you take the next two days to prepare your household." Waverly returned his attention to his desk.

Anushka and Tasha met them at the door with Nicky and Tia not far behind. Illya and Emerson took turns bestowing and receiving hugs and kisses.

"We ordered pizza for supper, Papa," Nicky said, hugging his father's leg and reaching up to kiss his mother. "We got three giant, super-big ones!"

Illya winked at Emerson. "Only three, Nicky? What will the rest of you eat?"

"Papa!" Tia chided, snuggling into his arms. "We got salads and noodles and dessert, too!"

"Okay everybody, wash up. We don't want to keep Pizza Man waiting!" Emerson said, shooing the children toward the bathroom.

The buzzer sounded and Emerson handed Illya the cash. He rolled his eyes, calculating the tip. "Hey, he's probably a college kid trying to earn a few bucks, Kuryakin!" she said, laughing at his antics.

They sat around the big kitchen table, catching up on school, visits to the zoo and museums, and who had done what to whom. Emerson watched Illya as he listened intently to every thing the kids said, their expressions, the way they ate and argued. _He wants to remember everything about them,_ she thought, pushing the ache in her heart as far away as possible.

By 8:30, Nicky was asleep on Emerson's lap and Illya was surrounded by drowsy little girls. "Time to tuck them in," she said, lifting Nicky to her shoulder. Illya carried Tia and Anushka and Tasha held his hand as they made their way down the hall.

They tucked in the babies, who disliked being called 'babies' and carried Anushka and Tasha into their room. The girls found enough energy to bounce into bed, wriggling beneath the white spread covered with tiny pink rosebuds, giggling the whole time.

"We missed you," Tasha said, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Anushka agreed.

"And we missed you," Emerson said, kissing Tasha's forehead and brushing her golden blonde hair. "Bunches!"

"Big bunches," Illya concurred, swallowed in Anushka's hug. He selected a very short book and read to them while Emerson watched from the doorway. Turning off the bedside lamp, he kissed each child. 'Son horosho, moi angely,' (Sleep well, my angels) he whispered. The girls were already asleep.

Holding hands, they stopped at the nursery. Illya kissed the twins, making sure that Nicky had his blanket and Tia had her bear. He stood for a very long time watching them sleep.

"Nikala," Emerson called softly.

He entered her embrace and they held each other.

Tuesday morning dawned bright and cool. Fall made itself known overnight.

Breakfast was its usual chaos with boxes of cereal, milk, toast, and juice spread over the kitchen table. The children talked animatedly about their expectations of the day and Illya volunteered join Emerson in taking the kids to school.

Anushka's face darkened. "You're going away," she said, frowning at Illya. He looked to Emerson for assistance.

"Help me clear the table," she said, collecting bowls while Tia and Nicky handled juice glasses, Tasha milk glasses, and Anushka carried the milk and juice boxes to the fridge. Illya wiped the table and poured fresh tea and coffee.

"Have a seat," Emerson invited. "Anushka's right, Papa has a business trip coming up. In fact, he's leaving tonight."

"With Uncle Napasha?" Tia asked, wriggling her way onto Illya's lap.

"Not this time, baby," Illya said, kissing her blonde head.

Tia frowned. "I'm **_not_** a baby!"

"Of course not," Illya chuckled, feeling the small, compact body stiffen with anger. He smiled at the little faces gathered around the table. "But, all of you will always be my mladency" (babies).

Anushka looked at Emerson and then at Illya. "When will you be home?"

Emerson shrugged. "This trip will be longer than usual," she said, flashing a quick glance at Illya, "so we might not hear from him as often as we usually do when he's away."

Tasha noticed her sister's question and attitude. "Where are you going, Papa?"

"I'm not quite certain, Tasha," Illya said, feeling horrible that he was lying to his own children. "Wherever Poppy needs me."

"You'll be gone at least a week … maybe two!" Nicky calculated his eyes wide at the thought.

Emerson laughed and pulled the little boy onto her lap. Tasha leaned against her hip. "At least that long, Nicky, but probably a lot longer."

Anushka stayed in her chair, her eyes moving from Illya to Emerson and back again. _She's barely five years old and she's already on to us,_ Emerson thought. _This one's going to be tough._

"Okay, get your stuff together," Emerson ordered, running through the list of things they needed to take to school. "And, everybody wears a coat today. No exceptions, Nicky." He sighed dramatically.

The children ran to gather their things, all except Anushka. Her dark blue eyes focused on Illya and Emerson was almost sure that he squirmed under her gaze.

She cuddled into his arms and leaned her head on his chest. "Daddy went away. Mama went away, too." She looked into his face. "Promise that you will come home, Papa."

Illya kissed both cheeks and hugged her close. "I promise, moya dragocennaya doch'. (my precious daughter) I promise." His eyes filled with pain and he quickly regained control. "Now, off to school with you!"

Emerson hugged him and kissed his cheek. "Be very careful about what you promise, Nikala."

He smiled over Emerson's head, watching Anushka gather up her things and organize her siblings. He laughed. "She has the makings for Section One.

Emerson pulled away and followed his gaze. "My kids will never work for UNCLE."

He nodded. "Let's just hope that if she does come into the family business that she works for our side."

Steel doors opened silently and Illya Kuryakin stepped into Section 8. His wore his typical unreadable expression and his typical black suit and black turtleneck sweater.

"Mr. Kuryakin," the receptionist/technician said, collecting a clipboard from a standing file. "Welcome to Section 8." She did not smile.

"Thank you," Illya deadpanned. How he despised this place. How he despised conditioning. And, if he would only be honest with himself, he feared it above all.

"If you'll follow me," the young woman said, walking away while she checked the clip board. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. You'll need to change into a gown." Ignoring his glare she said, "Standard procedure."

"Of course," Illya said irony thick in his voice. She opened the door to a small changing room, handed him a basket for his clothing, and dropped a gown on the exam table.

"Just get comfy and Dr. Sherrill will be in shortly."

"Get comfy?" Illya asked, frowning at the idea of being 'comfy' in clothing that routinely exposed the weakest part of his anatomy.

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin," she said, barely keeping the exasperation from her voice, "take off all of your clothing, put on the gown, and lie down on the table. I'll fetch a sheet for you."

Illya followed directions, leaving his clothing folded in the basket, but keeping the UNCLE Special at hand along with his communicator. He stretched out on the table and pulled up the sheet. His feet were cold.

A soft knock sounded and Dr. Thomas Sherrill stepped in, a broad smile on his ruddy face. An unruly mop of curly red hair brushed the collar of his white lab coat.

"Illya, good to see you!"

"Dr. Sherrill," Illya replied, refusing to be pleased with his lot.

Sherrill was not dissuaded by Illya's less than enthusiastic response. "Hey, I know you hate this … it's not exactly a picnic for us, either." He snapped on a pair of exam gloves. "Just a cursory exam and we'll get on with it."

Illya allowed the doctor to invade his mouth, look up his nose and in his ears, and hammer at his knees and elbows. A regulation cold stethoscope was pressed to his chest, to his ribs, and then to his belly. The customary poking and prodding of extremely sensitive and private areas finally ended. "Sit up, please." The doctor pulled off the gloves.

Illya rolled into a sitting position trying to keep what little dignity he had and failing.

"Don't worry, Illya," Sherrill said, grinning at the Russian agent. "I've seen plenty of tushes in my line of work."

"That is faint comfort, Dr. Sherrill," Illya said, glaring at the impossibly happy man.

Dr. Sherrill completed his exam, noting scars and anomalies, facts and figures. He turned to a glass fronted cabinet and selected several tubes with brightly colored rubber stoppers and a syringe.

"Blood work," he explained, tying a latex tourniquet around Illya's right arm. "Got to know what we're starting with, you know."

Illya nodded and winced slightly as the large bore needle pierced his skin. He watched as six tubes were quickly filled, labeled, and set aside.

"There we are," Sherrill said, applying a band-aid to the puncture wound. He glanced at his watch. "It'll take an hour or so to get the results. While we're waiting you can get your chest x-ray, whiz in the bottle, and have a friendly chat with Dr. Simmons."

"Dr. Simmons?"

"Right, he's the psych doc," Sherrill said, handing off the blood work. "He'll review your psych profile, ask a few questions, and then you can have lunch."

"I am aware of Dr. Simmons," Illya said, glaring at Dr. Sherrill. "My psych profile, as you term it, is current. I see no reason to take up his valuable time."

Dr. Sherrill handed Illya a specimen cup. "Not my call, Illya … protocol, ya' know? So, fill this for me, get your chest x-ray, and talk to Dr. Simmons." He literally bounced to the door.

Illya took the cup and shook his head. "I will not speak to Dr. Simmons."

The bouncing stopped. "Look, Kuryakin, I'm following protocol. I know you've got issues with psych. Hell, who doesn't? But, I have no choice … and neither have you."

"I will speak with Mr. Waverly," Illya said, slipping off the exam table and heading to the bathroom, making an effort to cover his behind.

"This is his order. All deep cover assignments are required to meet with psych. No psych, no assignment." Sherrill shrugged and closed the door.

"Der'mo!" Illya snapped as he filled the specimen cup.

Napoleon arrived at cryptography with a smile on his face, anticipating the next few hours with Dr. Julianna Hern, his favorite cryptographer. She was waiting, tortoise shell framed glasses perched on her head.

"Napoleon Solo," she drawled her Georgia accent thick. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes!"

He brushed her cheek with a kiss. "Julianna, my favorite Georgia peach."

She laughed and slapped his arm. "Your little Medicine Woman know you flirt with everything in skirts?"

"No, Julianna. I'm a spy," he said, winking at her.

"If you were _my_ spy, Napoleon Solo, you'd be taking nourishment through a straw … permanently," she said, grinning at the dark-haired agent. "Let's get this show on the road."

Julianna opened the file of code and shook her head. "Y'all out done yourself this time, Nappy," she said, scanning the document. "This dog'll hunt."

"It will work?" he asked, his eyes shining. "Illya will be able to embed it in his reports for Thrush Central and Dr. Devon-Jones without being detected?"

"Honey, you wrote this thing, right? If you wrote it, it'll work."

Napoleon sighed. "Illya wrote it," he confessed.

Julianna laughed. "Hell's fire, Nappy. If the Russian wrote this then it'll sure as hell work!"

"It has to work both ways … IK has to use it in his dispatches and we have to be able to use it ours. He won't be able to contact us by other means," Napoleon tapped the file with his manicured fingertip. "This is his life-line to us."

"Darlin', Thrush will never figure this, ever. Hell, they won't know their ass from a hole in the ground," she grinned. "This is the next best thing to Navajo Code Talk."

"Is it ready?"

She nodded, leading him to her office. "I just finished printing the hard copy. The Old Man'll have a shit fit when he sees how much space it takes, but we can't do a thing about it, now can we?"

Napoleon whistled at what must have been a ream of tractor feed computer paper lying on the corner of her desk. "Jesus, Julianna!" he said, flipping through the stack. "I had no idea it would be this … huge!"

"You Yankee's like to talk a lot … even on paper," she said, taking her desk chair. "Russian's … even worse! It'd been itty bitty if I'd done it for y'all." She grinned mischievously.

"And it would be very slow," Napoleon countered. "You Southern Belle's don't use a lot of words, but you do talk slow … even on paper."

"You hush your mouth, Nappy," she laughed. "One of these days the Glorious South will rise again and y'all gonna need all the help your Yankee ass can get."

"How the hell did you get through Harvard and Yale with that accent?" he asked.

"Same way y'all get around Paris with that down right nasty Frenchy accent," she grinned. "I've heard you try to talk all Frenchyfied and it ain't pretty." She turned her attention to the program. "Y'all wanna know how our little Russian is gonna use this stuff?"

He nodded, perching on the corner of her desk.

"Well, when we start messin' with his brain we're gonna add this to the mix. Hell, he already speaks a dozen languages, what's one more?" She winked at Napoleon. "I might talk right funny, Nappy, but I'm one smart Georgia peach!"

The black UNCLE sedan delivered Emerson and the kids at school. At the last minute, she had sent Illya to work. "The sooner you get started, the sooner you come home."

The second agent opened the passenger side door and the kids piled out. "Drive around, get some coffee, or something," she said, leaning into speak to the driver. "I'll call when I'm ready." He nodded as his partner closed the door and the car cruised into traffic.

The kids joined their friends and teachers on the playground and Emerson took the steps two at a time. Emerson grinned, remembering her conversation with Kristianna Blackstone.

"The Waverly children attended Cameron," Kristianna said, consulting a file as the two women shared lunch in the commissary. "Many Section 3 agents have their children enrolled there as well. UNCLE is responsible for security and every employee from the head mistress to the scullery maid have passed muster."

"I want the kids to have something of an eclectic experience," Emerson said, sipping her coffee. "It has to be more than academics. It's got to be diverse … a real United Nations sort of place."

"I believe Cameron boasts children from 31 nations with languages and dialects to match. The Kuryakin crew will fit perfectly." Kristianna laughed. "Cameron graduates attend some of the finest universities in the world, if you wish to consider that as well."

"Let's get them through elementary school first, Kristianna," Emerson said, laughing at the thought of her little darlings terrorizing the ivy covered halls of higher education.

She jogged to a stop at the toddler room and knocked.

"Come in," Deanna Welsch called. She glanced up and smiled. "Oh, Mrs. Kuryakin, how good to see you!"

"Hi, Deanna," Emerson said. "I only need a minute. Mr. Kuryakin is leaving on an extended trip today, one that may take him away for several months or more. I wanted to let you know in case any problems develop with the twins."

Deanna nodded. "Thank you for telling me. While it's par for the course around here, it's still hard for little ones to understand the extended absence of a parent. Add to that what your family has gone through recently and it simply multiplies the stress. I won't be surprised at all if they act out. I'll keep you posted and let me know if anything changes on the home front."

Emerson thanked the young teacher and talked with Tasha's teacher and then Anushka's teacher.

"Anushka is still processing her father's death, Mrs. Kuryakin." Mrs. Blanche Hadley, a motherly sort, ruled her classroom with an iron hand encased in a velvet glove. She loved her children fiercely and they reciprocated.

"I know Mrs. Hadley," Emerson said, feeling like she'd been caught chewing gum in class. "If it had been at all possible, Mr. Kuryakin would have postponed this trip. We talked alone with Anushka, assuring her that while he will be away for quite some time and will not be in touch with us as often as usual, he will come home … safe and sound."

Mrs. Hadley frowned. "Don't forget how critical it is to keep promises … all of them. I am aware of the work you are both engaged in …" She paused. "You may have made a promise that you cannot keep. Remember that."

Emerson nodded. "I'll deal with that problem if I get to it. Anushka isn't quite old enough to understand what Illya and I do and I don't think that this is the time to start such a discussion."

Mrs. Hadley took a good, hard look at the young woman standing before her. "You've done as much as possible to prepare her. We shall come through this, of course. Anushka is a very resilient child. I shall be in touch with you and encourage you to keep in touch with me."

Emerson recognized a dismissal when she heard one so she made her way through the empty, wide hallways as first bell sounded. The children noisily lined up, two by two and walked to their classrooms. Nicky spotted her, nudged Tia and they waived and smiled. She waived back and smiled at Miss Welsch, who grinned.

_God, I'm going to need all the help I can get _she prayed silently as she uncapped her communicator and ordered her car. _Lots more!_

Illya, now dressed in hospital pajama top and bottom, padded toward exam room 5 and Dr. Simmons. _Cooperate,_ his mantra with every step.

Dr. Ezra Simmons, a well-fed man in his late 50's, glanced up as the door opened and nodded. "Mr. Kuryakin, please make yourself comfortable."

Illya sat on the edge of the brown Naugahyde couch and waited.

"Comfortable, Mr. Kuryakin," Simmons said, not even looking at the agent. "Get comfortable."

"I am comfortable," Illya answered, his voice calm.

Simmons shook his gunmetal gray hair and turned his desk chair toward Illya. "Shall we sheath the long knives, Mr. Kuryakin?" he asked, frowning at the young agent. "I am here to help you prepare, not find you unfit for assignment."

"So I am told, Dr. Simmons."

Simmons frowned at the tone and attitude and jotted a note. "When last you were sent on such an assignment …" the doctor sifted through Illya's file, "nearly 8 years ago, things were quite different for you, were they not?"

Illya eased back on the couch, his features carefully schooled. "I am unsure of the question, Dr. Simmons."

"Please, Mr. Kuryakin, let's call a truce, shall we? There is no need to be intransigent," he charged, his pale gray eyes boring into Illya.

"I assure you, Dr. Simmons, I am not being intransigent, merely attempting to understand your question."

"Eight years ago, Agent Kuryakin, you were foot lose and fancy free, as they say. Now, you are married and the father of four young children." The doctor peered at Illya through his thick glasses as if he were looking at a particularly disagreeable lab specimen. "Is that clear?"

"Quite," Illya said, crossing his arms. "I fail to see your point."

Simmons colored and tapped his pen against the file. "My point is quite clear, Mr. Kuryakin. In the past six years you have sustained a nearly fatal chest wound, suffered the near death of your partner, met, wooed, and wed the Rev. Cates, discovered your brother and nieces, became the father of twins, suffered the death of your brother, and became the father to his children." Simmons almost glared at the Russian. "You have managed to tick off nearly every one of the extraordinary stressors we look for."

Illya nodded. "You did omit the fact that I was kidnapped by a rogue KGB agent, the brother of my deceased wife, held prisoner in the Gulag, and subsequently rescued." He paused, seeming to consider other omissions. "Not to mention an episode with Thrush in the desert and the more 'normal' assignments. Most recently I was captured in Moscow and held in Lubyanka prison until Mr. Solo was able to affect my rescue."

"My point, precisely, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya fixed his cool blue eyes on the doctor. "I understand your concerns, but find them without merit," he said, adding a mental shrug that Simmons could, he was sure, read.

"I am not certain that you understand the depth and scope of this assignment," the doctor said, jotting more notes. "I am not certain that you will tolerate the conditioning or the necessary memory blocks. I understand that a computer program that will enable you to contact UNCLE is to be added to the more 'usual' conditioning process."

Illya kept his face absolutely blank. No need to fuel the fire. He was pleased at his cooperation with this most disagreeable man.

"You were once the student of Dr. Devon-Jones; he was not only your mentor, but one of your few close friends at Cambridge. Now you are being sent in to compromise research in which you have a lively interest. You are to betray him. And, you are to betray UNCLE." Simmons took a hard look at the agent. "I doubt that an agent with your considerable skills and experience has the ability to maintain the distance necessary to successfully complete this assignment."

"Your concerns are duly noted," Illya said, rising and walking to the door. "I have undergone such conditioning and memory blocks in the past without ill effect, Dr. Simmons. While I appreciate your concerns for my welfare, I do not share in them."

"I have not dismissed you, Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor said, turning his chair to face Illya. "As I said, I am not convinced that you are capable of successfully completing this assignment and it will not proceed without my approval." A churlish grin crossed his face.

Illya stopped just shy of the door. He straightened his back even further. "I suggest that you share your concerns with Mr. Waverly." The glacial blue eyes impaled Simmons. "I am hungry. Good day, Dr. Simmons."

The door closed quietly behind him leaving Dr. Simmons slack jawed and angry. His pen skritched furiously across the paper.

Napoleon returned to his office in high spirits, ignoring the caustic look from Margaret, his secretary. "You've got company," she muttered.

The door to his shared office opened and he was surprised to find Illya behind his own desk, twiddling his thumbs.

"I thought you were getting conditioned," Napoleon said, frowning at his partner.

"Apparently, Dr. Simmons does not agree with your assessment." Illya did not look at his partner.

"Damn it, Illya! You pissed him off, didn't you?"

"The good doctor is suggesting that I am not psychologically fit for this assignment." Illya watched out of the corner of his eye for a reaction.

"What the hell is he talking about?" Napoleon said his voice seething.

"You are slipping into your Canadian accent, Napoleon," Illya said, an evil grin on his face. "That broad 'a' and odd 'ou' combination."

"I do not have a Canadian accent," Napoleon protested. "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin!"

Illya shrugged. "I successfully completed my annual psych evaluation two months ago. I see no reason to repeat the process."

"Dr. Simmons, uh? What's his problem?" Napoleon asked, running his fingers through his short, dark hair, the typically errant lock evading his attempt at management.

"He is of the opinion that I have experienced an over-load of severe physical, emotional and mental traumas in the last few years and that the conditioning and blocks planned for this assignment may be … dangerous."

"Dangerous? What the hell is he talking about?"

"I would suggest that you speak to the doctor," Illya said, standing and stretching. "First, however, I demand that you feed me."

Napoleon laughed. "Maybe they can block your bottomless pit of a stomach," he said, reaching for the phone. "I'll order lunch and have it sent up. I don't want you wandering the halls dressed like an escaped mental patient."

"If this is my last decent meal I want Chinese," Illya said, grinning at his partner. "From Golden Dynasty."

Alexander Waverly frowned. "Why is Doctor Simmons requesting an immediate appointment, Miss Blackstone?"

"Mr. Kuryakin."

"Send him in." The Chief of Section 1, UNCLE/New York reached for his pipe and began the ritual of preparing it just as Dr. Simmons stormed into his office.

"Ezra, please be seated," Waverly said, not looking at the psychiatrist.

"Kuryakin is not fit for this assignment!"

"What has led you to this conclusion, Ezra?" Waverly asked, meticulously cleaning the bowl of his Meerschaum pipe.

"I tried to evaluate him this morning," Dr. Simmons sputtered. "I emphasize 'tried', Alex. He refused to cooperate!"

"Evaluate Mr. Kuryakin? Why is that necessary, Ezra?" Waverly opened the humidor and carefully packed the bowl with tobacco.

"Protocol, Alexander. Any agent being considered for a long term undercover assignment is automatically evaluated."

Waverly glanced at his number two psychiatrist. "Mr. Kuryakin has been evaluated, Ezra. Two months ago."

"I know that, Alex," the doctor said, frowning at his boss.

"Am I incorrect in my understanding that Mr. Kuryakin was cleared for field assignments? I did not receive any reports to the contrary," Waverly toyed with his pipe. "If you held such reservations at that time it would have been prudent to express them."

"Mr. Kuryakin worked very hard to manage his losses; however, I do not wish to approve him for this assignment."

Waverly puffed on the cold pipe and reached for a match. "I understand your concerns. Miss Fleming reports that Mr. Kuryakin has come to terms with the death of his brother and with his dependence on alcohol. I see no reason to evaluate him again."

"Protocol, Alex!"

Waverly sucked on the pipe, moving the match neatly around the circumference of the bowl.

"Balderdash," he said, a halo of blue smoke circling his head.

"Alex, he is completely uncooperative!" Simmons voice shook with anger. "I do not believe that he is competent!"

"Mr. Kuryakin may well be described as 'uncooperative', Ezra, but never incompetent." He opened the folder containing Illya's evaluation, reviewed it, and returned it to Dr. Simmons. "I find nothing in the evaluation that would support your concerns, Ezra."

Ezra Simmons rose and paced the office. "My concerns go well beyond what we have already discussed." The doctor stopped next to Waverly's chair, his eyes watering from the pipe smoke. "You are asking him to betray this organization and then betray the man who is his mentor and friend. He is too close, Alexander. I fear that he will loose perspective."

Waverly considered the statement and nodded. "I will admit that Mr. Kuryakin's career with UNCLE has been demanding." Simmons' eyebrows shot up at the understatement. "And, I will concur that the past few months have been particularly taxing. However, Ezra, he has benefited from expert counseling and I would suggest, Mr. Kuryakin's life is balanced to no small degree by the benefits of the life he now lives." Waverly frowned at the psychiatrist. "I understand that you see his marriage and family as a problem, but I see the positive changes that have occurred in their wake." He gestured with his large hands. "As to his friendship with Dr. Devon-Jones, well, Mr. Kuryakin is no longer a lonely, young Cambridge student reliant on the 'friendship' of one person. He is fortunate to have a wide circle of friends."

"Alex, you are responsible for instituting this particular protocol. I am merely following it," Simmons said, pausing to look out the windows. "I do not want him unable to differentiate assignment from reality. Should anything unfortunate befall Mr. Kuryakin, I will not be held responsible."

"No, of course not," Waverly said, turning his attention to another file. "If there is nothing else, Ezra?"

Dr. Ezra Simmons snatched up the evaluation file and stormed out.

Julianna Hern watched as Illya Kuryakin was prepared for the first round of conditioning. She checked and rechecked the computer tapes and the massive printout of the program. _Jesus! I hate messin' with people's brains!_

Sherrill tied off Illya's left arm and snapped his finger against the inside of the agent's elbow. A nice, fat vein popped up and the needle of the syringe pushed home.

"This will relax you, Illya, and get your brain in the mood for suggestion," Dr. Sherrill said, dropping the empty syringe in a small steel basin. "Once we've begun I'll introduce other drugs to your system that will actually change your brain chemistry."

Illya nodded. "You will remember that I despise drugs," he said, no hint of humor in his voice.

"I well recall your aversion to such things, Illya," Sherrill said, smiling at his patient. "I will remain at your beside monitoring vital signs and EEG. Dr. Julianna Hern will be downloading the information we wish to implant."

Illya glanced at the mirrored glass panel and grinned at Julianna. "Good afternoon, Dr. Hern," he called.

"Back at 'ya, Dr. Kuryakin," she drawled. "Relax and we'll get this show started." She flipped the first switch and the computer tape jerked to life.

Illya settled the headphones over his ears and closed his eyes trying to ignore the slight nausea and headache that always accompanied the conditioning process. As he began to drift, he remembered his family and prayed to Emerson's god that those memories would not be damaged.

On Thursday evening Julianna and Dr. Sherrill completed Illya's conditioning. Julianna thought that she had never been so exhausted in her life. Illya seemed to take it in stride, stoic and just a little cranky.

As Illya collected himself, stretching and working out the kinks, his communicator trilled.

"Kuryakin."

"Mr. Waverly wishes to see you, Illya," Kristianna Blackstone said.

"Please tell him that I will report as soon as Dr. Sherrill and Dr. Hern have completed their task."

"Thank you, Illya," she said, and the connection ended.

Julianna Hern dropped the computer tapes into their cases and grinned at Illya. "Tell you what, Russian," she said, "I don't know how y'all handle this stuff. It scares the willies out of me."

"Willies?" Illya asked, confused at yet another indecipherable term.

"Bejezus?" She grinned at the look of confusion on his face. "Wits! It scares the wits outta me, Illya."

"It is not the most enjoyable or comfortable process," he said, glancing around for Dr. Sherrill. "But, it is sometimes necessary. Are we finished?"

Julianna opened his file. "Looks to me like y'all are finished, darlin'. If we need you I'll call."

Illya nodded and headed for the elevator, absently rubbing his forehead.

Alexander Waverly sat at the huge round table puffing contentedly on his pipe. Napoleon and Emerson had already joined him. He glanced up as Illya entered.

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, waiving the agent to a chair. "I take it all has gone according to plan?"

"Yes, sir. The conditioning is complete and the blocks are in place." His fingers returned to his temples.

Waverly frowned. "Are you all right, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya dropped his hand and nodded. "Mild headache, sir. Not uncommon for me after such a process."

"Good. The final step is to implant the phrase that you will use when you have completed the assignment … or, if things go badly and you wish to be brought in," Waverly said, consulting a file.

"Something that will be memorable and subtle simultaneously," Waverly continued, watching the young Russian consider his request.

"Em, perhaps you can suggest something," Illya said, his eyes hungry for the sight of her. He smiled.

"Nikala," she said, frowning in concentration, "let me think a moment." She paused, mentally flipping through an extensive file of trivia. "Shibboleth," she said. "That's the word … the signal."

Napoleon frowned. "Shibboleth? What sort of word is that?"

Illya smiled and nodded to Emerson. "Judges 12:6. From the Hebrew Scriptures."

Napoleon rolled his eyes at his know-it-all partner. "Leave it to a godless Commie to know something like that!" He grinned.

"Excellent choice, Emie." Waverly turned his attention to Napoleon. "Perhaps I should defer to you, Reverend Cates," a sly grin on his weathered face."

"Not at all, Alexander. Tell the tale," she said, smiling at her husband, dying to touch him.

"Jephthah, a judge in ancient Hebrew history, fought a victorious battle against the Ephraimites. When soldiers of the Ephraimites sought to infiltrate Jephthah's ranks the judge devised a clever way to identify them," Waverly said, pausing to puff on his pipe. "Jephthah told his troops to ask the infiltrators to say the word 'shibboleth.' The Ephraimites were unable to pronounce the 'sh' sound, and when they mispronounced the word they were killed." He glanced at Emerson. "Am I correct?"

Emerson grinned. "You've missed your calling, Alexander. You've got the makings of a seminary professor." She turned her attention to Illya. "Shibboleth is a pass word that I doubt Thrush would recognize or understand."

"It is quite helpful to have a personal spiritual advisor, Napoleon," Illya said, grinning at his partner.

Friday morning was the typical Cates-Kuryakin Zoo.

Emerson had breakfast with the kids, mediated a dispute over cereal, milk, and juice, and gratefully allowed Cav to make the school run.

Now she stood at the balustrade of the roof garden, listening to the traffic below. _What a goddamn cluster fuck this is, _she thought, brushing her fingers through her short, silver hair and then reached for a cigarette. _And you thought the 'usual' shit was tough! Go ahead; send your husband, the father of your children, into the arms of Thrush._

Illya's voice came to her, as loud and clear as if he were standing next to her. "For better, for worse, Em," he had said last night as they lay together in their UNCLE apartment. His long, slender fingers touched her wedding band.

"This is definitely 'worse', she said, kissing his cheek. "What a fucked up life we lead, Kuryakin."

He laughed and then grew serious. "You must play your part, Em. You must be convincing." His eyes were dark and serious.

She snuggled into his arms, almost ashamed of her tears. "I'll be completely convincing, Nikala." He moved away and sat up, rummaging through the pocket of his discarded jacket. He handed her a small, black velvet box.

"You have always been particularly partial to small, velvet boxes, I believe," he said.

Her hands trembled as she opened the box. "Nikala! I thought that you had left this at home." He reached into the box and withdrew a fine, gold chain without a clasp. His wedding ring dangled from it. He slipped it over her head and smiled.

"Wear this for me until I come home." His voice was husky with emotion.

The thin gold band rested in the hollow between her breasts. Her fingers traced the length of the chain and then touched his face.

"Until you come home."

More to come …


End file.
